Of Chaos and Eternal Night
by alwaysaclaw11
Summary: Following the capture of Lord Voldemort, Hermione Granger, deeply wounded by the war, conducts a series of investigations into the mind of the Dark Lord, but he is more complex than she imagined, and what she feels for a man she should hate threatens everything she's worked so hard to rebuild. Volmione.
1. Reign in Hell

"The mind in its own place can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven" - John Milton, Paradise Lost

1: Reign in Hell (I wanted to do a soundtrack with this fic. The song for this chapter is Kill and Run by Sia.)

_October 21, 1998_

_I, Hermione Granger, by order of the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, will conduct several interviews over the course of the next nine months with the dark wizard, Tom Riddle Junior, alias Lord Voldemort._

_Following his capture at the Battle of Hogwarts, he and his followers were detained and imprisoned in Azkaban. Some have been released, others are awaiting trial or sentencing. It is my hope that these interrogations will give the Ministry a better understanding of how such mad men think, live and are created so we can better defend ourselves against future threats._

A storm buckled at the horizon. Thick, black clouds hovered over crashing waves, spitting and cracking, trapping flashes of lightning within them. Azkaban Prison jutted out of the restless sea like a demon hand reaching from hell.

Hermione Granger swallowed. Hard.

Nervously, she tightened the bun that held her brown hair. One curled strand refused to stay in place, bouncing and flopping in the salty wind. With a roar that shook the ground, an ashen bridge rose out of the ocean, splashing her with cold water. The bridge connected with the rocky shore and Hermione followed its path, angry waves below, to the shrouded, gloomy entrance of Azkaban prison.

When the cold, emptiness of nearby dementors settled across her skin and down her spine, a cold hand of regret gripped down on her lungs. Breaths came shallow and shaken. Had this been a mistake? Dealing with the loss of the war had been damn hard. Nights of screaming terrors, waking up in a cold sweat. Seeing empty rooms and hearing cold silences where voices of people she loved no longer sang and laughed or told her they loved her. It was too late now. She was already here, and she needed answers. No matter how angry she was, no matter how scared.

Several human guards took post at the wizarding prison Azkaban. A wizened old man with a short beard and milky, caramel eyes greeted Hermione at the entrance. She took his frail hand in her much stronger one.

"Miss Granger, I presume?" his old voice cracked. She nodded. He dropped his hand and waved her forward, "This way."

They walked in silence through a narrow corridor sticky with cobwebs and heavy with the stench of rot and mold. Dementors swept through the crossing halls, covered by black veils as they had been before Voldemort controlled them. Shacklebolt had given the awful creatures a choice: return to Azkaban or be imprisoned forever without any human joy to feed off.

They chose the former.

The old man stopped at the end of the hall before an iron door. His little eyes examined Hermione. "You're wearing black. Excellent. Color startles him. I take it you've been informed of how dangerous he is?"

_I've been fighting him half my life. Trust me, I know. _

"Yes, sir. Thank you," she said quickly, glancing down at her black pencil skirt and chiffon button-up blouse with little capped sleeves. That better be dark enough...

"No use if you ask me; Old You-Know-Who will never talk," he said. "There's nothing human left in him. Dementors don't seem to notice he's even there...well, good luck, girl." With a shake of his head, the old guard hobbled down the corridor and into deep shadow.

She just had to apparate to the other side of the door. Simple, yet impossible. The most dreaded, terrible person in the world stood in that room. The most hated too...

Biting down on her cheek, she forced fear down, down, down until she could manage it. The dizzying grip of apparation surrounded her. In almost an instant, she was in Lord Voldemort's cell.

She gripped onto the dewy wall for support as cold air chilled her neck. There was hardly any room and just a small cot, an iron chair and a dresser. There were no windows. It smelled surprisingly clean, however, making it easier to breath. She ignited the lantern in the far corner of the cell with a flick of her wand.

A shadowy figure turned. He stood by the opposite wall, directly across from her. His red eyes gleamed as he looked her up and down. Blood froze in her veins. Terror bit at every part of her, but she would not let him see it. It was more than terror anyway, it was also bitterness, like a vine twining around her lungs, choking out the oxygen.

Voldemort stepped closer and into the light. Instead of the black robes she'd seen him wear at the Battle of Hogwarts, or even the black-and-white of prison attire, he wore a pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt. Someone must have thought it'd be a good joke to dress him like a muggle. It did make him look less menacing than he had the last time she'd seen him but only slightly.

"The dementors are getting prettier." He stood perfectly still as he spoke, his words cold and even.

Hermione swallowed, gripping her wand. "My name is Hermione Granger and I'm here to ask you some questions." She spoke too quickly.

His feet smacked the concrete floor. "It was very stupid idea for you to bring your wand." He lifted his hand, a white spark ignited in his fingers. Voldemort snarled and stumbled back. "Clever."

"I did my research before coming here, Mr. Riddle."

Hermione knew he'd try that and had planned in advance with a spell that would block Voldemort from using her wand. It wasn't easy magic by any means, but she did it, and was very happy to see it had worked. Not that she really doubted herself. She had gone over security measure after security measure with Shacklebolt. Even with a wand, nobody, not even Voldemort, could get out of this place with the amount of protection on it.

His laugh was icy, echoing, and swept over her like an avalanche. "Don't call me by my father's name."

"I'm the one with the wand. I'll call you whatever I want." Her words muddled together. She hoped they at least sounded sort-of confident, even with fear trembling through her. Hermione's wand twitched in her hand. It would be so easy to curse him. She shook away the thought. He might deserve it, but she wasn't here for that. Answers could help her; revenge would just draw her deeper into the darkness already swirling around her.

"I have no reason to answer any of your questions. I've already told the Minister I will not give up my followers."

"You're in luck then. I want to ask questions about _you_." She gestured toward him. It was strange Voldemort wouldn't speak against his Death Eaters. Maybe he was smart enough to know that all the Minister's talk of lesser sentencing was just for show. The Wizengamot was going to execute him. Still there was something a little respectable about Voldemort's choice.

"What could you possibly want to know about me?" Voldemort was only a few steps from her now. He smelled oddly of sage for someone who hadn't been outside in months. The T-shirt he wore might have been a size too small for the way it gripped the muscles in his arms and his chest. She licked her lips and forced herself to look away.

"Don't worry. I just thought that maybe you could tell me some stories," Hermione said.

"Three brothers were..."

She shook her head. "Not that kind of story. A story about your life."

"What incentive do I have to tell you anything?" he whispered.

Hermione kept her wand pointed at him, her heart pounding. "You have nothing better to do. "

He ran his thin hand over his smooth, white scalp. "Besides plot my escape."

"You can't escape."

Voldemort smiled and she had to look away from its bright darkness, uncomfortable in its impossibility. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating me, Miss Granger."

"Don't underestimate me either, Mr. Riddle." She raised an eyebrow and forced herself to look him in the eye, even though everything inside her screamed not to.

He smirked and sat down the edge of the cot, squeaking the springs. "Why do you want me to talk to you?"

"I, um," Where were her words when she needed them? "I wanted, for the Ministry, that is, to understand -"

"Stop right there, pet," he said. "You should leave."

The words came out fast, but clear, anger rising in her chest. "That's up to me. Not you."

"I know why you're here. You think you're going to get answers to why all these terrible things happened to you. You think it'll give you closure, hope for the future. You want to know why I did the things I did. Some tragic tale of pain and woe and despair that turned me into the despicable monster you see today. So you can make some sense out of the pathetic darkness that is your life. Am I wrong?"

How could he have possibly known?

"Don't-"

"You are wasting your time," he said coldly then spun on his bare heel to face the concrete wall. Hermione stepped far away from him, preparing to disapparate, to give up. This man nearly ruined her life...what did she care?

"Miss Granger?" His ice-voice stopped her movements.

Swallowing, replied, "Yes?"

"You're a mudblood, aren't you?" he turned towards her, arms motionless at his sides.

Hermione bit her tongue. She tried not to let the slur bother her, but it always did. A kick right between the ribs. "My parents are muggles."

The correction didn't faze Voldemort. "Have you ever read Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_?" His eyes were a dark, hot red like boiling blood. Hermione couldn't tug her gaze away now despite earlier being so afraid to look at him.

"I have."

He looked down at his hands, examining his fingers. "It's good, is it not?"

_Where is he going with this? _

"I enjoyed it. Yes. Why?" Did she even want to know? At this point, going home was her best bet, the safest route.

"You just reminded me of it, that's all." He stared over Hermione's head at the iron door. If Voldemort was going to cause trouble, she would get out of here. Call this whole thing a big mistake like her boyfriend, Ron Weasley, said it would be.

"Hmph. Okay. Whatever," she mumbled.

Hermione was about to disapparate out of the room again when Voldemort spoke. "May I propose a trade?" he asked and Hermione shrugged. "I'll give you one of my stories, as you call them, for a copy of _Frankenstein_."

She could hardly think of a weirder request, but it wouldn't be difficult and if it got her what she came here for then it couldn't hurt, could it?

"You will?" she asked, afraid she sounded too surprised or eager, but he had no obvious physical reaction.

Voldemort displayed a corner of his teeth. "Mind you, it won't make a difference; it won't give you the healing you seek, but I will answer your questions."

What else was there to say? She nodded curtly and, holding her breath, disapparated from the cell.

She shuddered and quickly glanced back. There was something so intimidating about that man...thing...whatever he was. Even in a dark, empty cell, he was still somehow king of that place. It made it difficult to be around him, but there was something else about him too. It reminded her of sitting on her mother's porch, a candle on the steps, watching little summer moths fluttering too close to the flame.

Mesmerizing and dangerous. She hated him for it.

Hermione walked out of Azkaban and into the falling rain. She would not go back; it wasn't worth it. She didn't need answers; she just needed to let go and move forward like Ron had. But when she stepped into the small London apartment she shared with Ron and Harry, there was a brown paper wrapped copy of Frankenstein under her arm.

**A/N: So I've been working on this Volmione story for a while, but haven't posted any of it yet. I'm about to have a lot more time on my hands and one of my biggest stories is almost over, so I thought this was a good time to see if there was any interest in this story. The title and the chapter titles come from John Milton's Paradise Lost which is in a nutshell the fall of the world to sin from the devil's POV. It's not really based on the story other than thematically. Thanks for reading. Please review!  
**

**This chapter was beta'd by MaiWishes**


	2. His Fatal Throne

2: His Fatal Throne (The song for this chapter is The Living by Natalie Merchant)

_October 30, 1998_

_During the first visit, Voldemort seemed unwilling to cooperate with the interviews, but agreed to trade his stories for certain items. I had expected him to ask for a magical item and was deeply shocked when he'd wanted Frankenstein an 18th century muggle horror novel written by Mary Shelley. The deal did suggest, however, that Voldemort still seeks to maintain control and leverage despite his bleak circumstances and impending death._

Hermione shared a three bedroom apartment in London near the Leaky Cauldron with her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, though the latter had become slightly more than her friend over the last few months.

It was a cramped space with too-much furniture, racing brooms leaning against the walls, dirty dishes in the sink (because the boys couldn't manage a simple cleaning spell) and a television which neither Harry or Ron watched. Hermione, however, had a secret penchant for old movies, especially old movie musicals, her boys could just not understand.

The place smelled of waffles, maple syrup and a fresh pot of coffee. She had gotten up early because she had an appointment at Azkaban today, and had been making breakfast all morning. If her stomach wasn't churning so fast, she might actually enjoy the food she'd made.

Ron entered the kitchen from their small outdoor balcony, cradling a large round pumpkin in his arms. "Happy Halloween," he said with a cheerful smile, his ginger hair flopping over his eyes.

Hermione yawned, running her hands through her hair as she sipped her mug of coffee. "It's not Halloween yet."

"Well, it is tomorrow, and I'm celebrating today too." Ron plopped the gourd down on the square grey table, rattling the vase of daisies Hermione had put there as a centerpiece.

Harry came out of his bedroom, pulling on his boots, his glasses crooked. He was bleary eyed and sleepy, black hair messy as always.

Hermione glanced over at Ron, then smiled at Harry. "Happy Halloween Harry."

His brow furrowed. "It's not Halloween." Harry poured himself a travel mug of coffee. If Hermione remembered right, he had a big day at work today. His first case as an auror or something like that.

"Told you so. Ron." She kissed her boyfriend on the cheek. They'd been together since the end of the war, and though they were living together, she didn't really see it as 'living together' because they had separate rooms and Harry was here too.

"You're so cute and ridiculous." He grabbed her waist, spun her and planted a rough kiss on her mouth. She sighed, leaned in slightly, but then pulled away. "So what are we up to today?" asked Ron, jumping onto the counter, rattling the salt-and-pepper shakers.

"I have to work," said Harry, pouring cream into his coffee.

"So do I." Hermione half-smiled, feeling a bit sorry for Ron. He was so excited, then again he was always excited nowadays. He had adjusted much better after the war than she and Harry had. Even with Fred's death.

Ron scowled as he picked up a waffle and took a bite. "By work you mean you're going to Azkaban to talk to You-Know-Who?"

She rolled her eyes as she plopped down on one of the kitchen chairs and slipped on her black-heeled boots. "Can you please not call him that?"

"Fine. Voldemort. Whatever. It's still a stupid idea." Ron stabbed a huge knife into the flesh of the pumpkin with the hand not holding the waffle.

"It's not...look...I know you don't understand, but I do, so can you just trust me?" She zipped up her boots and stood, not in the mood for this same argument with Ron.

"I don't like it," he said sternly.

"I know, but I'll be fine." She smiled and kissed him gently.

Harry groaned, slamming his coffee down on the counter. Ron and Hermione jumped.

"Can we just not. Okay? Can we not talk about him?" Harry's voice cracked. Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried look. Harry was all right most of the time, but there were times when he'd have a sudden burst of anger or disappear into his room for days.

"Yeah, mate. Sorry."

"Look. It's fine. I'm just stressed out about work today. It's the first case where we actually get to contribute." He put on a smile then grabbed his coat from the closet. Harry had been in Auror training since the end of the war. Ron had considered joining up too, but wanted to take some time off to 'appreciate being alive' and 'find himself'. Harry had been furious when they'd assigned him a partner, and it had been Draco Malfoy.

"Have fun with Malfoy." Ron laughed.

Harry opened the door and glared at Ron. "Is that even possible?"

Hermione kissed Ron again quickly. "I have to go to. We'll carve the pumpkins for tomorrow when I get home this evening, okay?" She pulled her wool black coat from the closet and followed Harry outside.

With a knot in her stomach, Hermione walked to Diagon Alley where she apparated to the beach near Azkaban. Cold and foreboding, she swallowed her nerves and walked inside. She nodded to the old guard and made her way down the dark and terrifying corridor and apparated into Voldemort's room.

He sat, back straight on the iron chair, but stood stiffly when he noticed her standing there.

"Good morning," said Hermione pleasantly. Setting a calm, easy tone would be important not only for getting information from Riddle, but also for relaxing her own overactive nerves.

"Is it?" Voldemort drawled, turning to face her.

She sighed. "Good or morning?"

"Both." His lips twitched into a phantom smile.

"It's morning."

"I have no way of telling."

Her brow furrowed. "I never really thought about that..."

Voldemort reached behind his head and scratched his neck. "You don't really until you're trapped in here. I don't even know what day it is."

That sounded awful. Hermione compulsively checked her watch all day; she loved to count the minutes as they ticked by in their perfect, unbroken rhythm.

"Wednesday. Tomorrow is Halloween."

He nodded, stepping forward with this hand out. "Did you bring the book?" he asked. She nodded and handed it to him, being careful not to touch him.

"You can sit." Voldemort flipped open the book, scanning through the pages and then he read, "Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it."

As she sat down on the iron chair, Hermione whispered, "How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery."

He looked up at her, eyes connecting, shaking her insides. "...impressive," he said.

"I said I'd read it." Hermione stared down at her folded hands.

"Yes, Miss Granger, but you did not say you had it memorized."

She paused, swallowed and then answered, "I remember everything I read."

The corner of his lip curled, his chin falling on his fisted hand. "Everything?"

"Yes." Her voice was low and then perked up. "But we're here to talk about you, not me." It was important she kept him on subject and didn't give too much of herself away.

He sat down on his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Of course. Where shall I begin...oh yes, it was late December, New Years Eve-"

"Your birthday," Hermione interjected.

His head twisted to the side, looking intrigued. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it was my sixth birthday. Wool's that's-"

"The orphanage in which you were raised."

If it hadn't been Voldemort, she would have thought he was smiling. "You know quite a lot about me, Miss Granger? Are you sure these sessions are entirely necessary?"

She nodded. "I know facts about you, Riddle. I'm not here to know more facts; I'm here to know you."

He shook his head, but continued. "There were these two older boys. I don't remember their names. They lived in the room next to mine and were always bouncing balls against the wall. Just all day long. If you're searching for a reason I became what I am, I guess you could say it started with those rubber balls."

"Rubber balls?" She was not convinced.

Voldemort sat back, his eyes fogging, as he remembered a time long past. "Yes. Just listen. Well, these balls bouncing against the wall would keep me up all night. If the matron caught them, she'd yell at them, but the moment she left, it would start all over again. Just these stupid balls bouncing over and over for hours. I'd tell them to stop, but they were about twelve or thirteen and weren't going to listen to a six-year-old. So one night, it was about two in the morning, and I just couldn't take it anymore. I laid there in bed and thought and thought and thought about those stupid rubber balls turning into spheres of flame that would burn those boy's hands on every bounce. I fell asleep eventually and the next morning I was woken by the screams of the boys next door whose hands were red, blistered and burned."

Her heart was beating a steady, quick rhythm against her ribcage. "Was that-"

"The first time I ever used magic? Yes. What was your first time?" Voldemort leaned forward again, close enough she could smell his breath. She expected it to be sour or rotten, but it was like fresh mint toothpaste. How is that even possible?

"We're not here to talk about me." She adjusted the skirt of her black dress.

"Indulge me, Miss Granger. I'm a dying man."

Hermione's gaze lingered on him for a moment. It wouldn't hurt to say.

"I was really mad at this girl. She was making fun of me. Her shoe laces tied together on their own, she tripped and rolled down a hill."

"Odd, how magic often presents itself when we're angry."

"It's not just anger. I've read many studies about childhood magic, it usually accompanies some type of strong emotion – anger, sadness, happiness...love." She faltered on the last word. What would Voldemort know of that?

He looked to the dark concrete wall for a pause, then back to Hermione with a deep, intense gaze. A weighted and desperate darkness in his voice, he quoted Frankenstein. "I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other."

Hermione stood from her chair, mind tripping over itself, hands sweating. Was that a threat? Was it a – what the hell was that? Merlin, she needed out of there.

"Why are you standing?" he asked, sounding confused.

She swallowed. "I should go. I have work."

"What do you do?"

Hermione willed herself to calm down. "I'm the assistant to the Minister of Magic."

"I was offered that job when I left Hogwarts." Voldemort half-smiled.

"You turned it down to work at Borgin and Burkes so you could find powerful magical objects to make into horcruxes."

He shook his head and looked down at his bare feet. "Have you gotten the story you wanted?"

"Not yet. I'd like to come back," she said, though 'like' was too strong of a word. At least, the wrong word.

"I'd like some clothes that fit, preferably robes," he said softly, a little too softly for a man like him.

Hermione nodded. "I can get you nicer muggle clothes that fit or the regular Azkaban prison uniform. Your choice."

He paused, licked his lips with his slightly forked tongue. "The muggle clothes, if I must. Just remember Miss Granger, I am not a size small."

She bit her lip to stop from laughing. "Clothes for another story. Deal."

"And socks, it gets drafty in here...Happy Halloween, Miss Granger." His voice was as smooth as hot honey, and she had strangest sensation of being trapped in it.

Trying not think too hard about her visit with Voldemort, about his strangely cold, yet intimate way of being, she headed to the Minister of Magic's office where she sat at her small desk and drowned in piles of parchment work.

The wooden door squealed open, letting in the murmur of voices outside as Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside.

"Did you get the filing done?" asked Shacklebolt, looking haggard, like he hadn't slept in days. His dark eyes were shadowed and narrowed, shoulders slightly slumped. He only let himself look that way in private, and Hermione didn't mind. They all felt like that.

"Yes," Hermione said, her mind distracted.

"And the sorting?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

Shacklebolt clasped a hand on her shoulder and laughed his deep, gruff laugh. "You don't have to call me sir, Hermione."

"Yes, sir." He was Minister of Magic; of course she'd call him sir.

He leaned against the wall. "How's it going with...him?"

"Fine." She swallowed, her throat sticky. Fine wasn't the right word, She didn't know the right word. For once, the English language, in all its glory, had failed her.

_Maybe there is a word for it in parseltongue..._

"That's it. Fine?"

She sighed, standing up. "I'm not ready to comment on it yet; I don't have enough information."

"Well you only have six months. The execution was moved to April."

Something like pain shook her body; something she didn't quite understand. "You said I'd have nine?"

"That's not up to me. It's up to the Wizengamot."

Hermione groaned. This was not a subject on which many agreed with her. "Who are just listening to popular opinion."

"Shouldn't the public decide?"

Her voice cracked and she was speaking too quickly again. "Should a mob decide whether or not a man should live or die? No, Minister, they should not."

"I'm surprised you hold such opinions about the man who tried to kill you and your friends." He regarded her thoughtfully.

She paused, pressing her lips together then said, "It's not about him. It's about the principle. And the answers I want from him."

"Well, you have six months to get those answers, Hermione." He grabbed his briefcase and opened the door. "What do I have in the morning?"

"Meeting with the undersecretary, then a question and answer session with the Prophet about the new improper use of magic legislation," she said with a tired smile.

"Good night, Hermione. Go home. See your boyfriend." He grinned brightly then disappeared out the door.

"Yes, sir," said Hermione to no one at all.

That was exactly what she needed to do. Go home to Ron, fall asleep in his arms and forget how complicated and unforgiving the world could be.

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the favorites and follows. I love, love, love reviews. Send me any thoughts or ideas or concerns you might have! I do read them all and respond. Thanks again! **

**From now on, I'll update once a week. Every Monday. (unless something crazy happens, but it shouldn't).**


	3. Study of Revenge

3: Study of Revenge (Your Battlefield, Susie Suh)

_November 15, 1998_

_From what I've seen of Voldemort, his primary skills, without his magic, seem to be manipulation and negotiation. He uses both these tactics to maintain some control over a situation where he would otherwise be powerless. He did however reveal information that suggests he ties anger to magic, and magic to his own sense of self worth and identity. This could be a contributing factor to his violent nature._

There was a small men's clothing store down the street from Hermione's apartment. It was the kind of place where there was more floor and wall space than clothes. The kind of place Ron Weasley wouldn't shop in, even though he now had money. The Ministry had paid all three of them, Harry, Ron and Hermione, reparations, a lot of reparations, for what they had to go through, for what they did. Hermione hadn't used a cent of that money. Until today.

She never asked what Harry and Ron did with theirs, or what they would do. It wasn't her business.

It felt a bit strange using money she'd been awarded fighting Voldemort buying him socks, but it wasn't really about socks, or about him, right? It was about what he could teach Hermione about dangerous people like him, about how they became that way. Maybe they could be stopped before it got this far. Before they destroyed the world.

_Before they destroyed themselves. _

Hermione shook that thought away.

She grabbed a few t-shirts like the ones Riddle'd been wearing, only larger. Black, green and blue. The blue had looked...no, Hermione, it didn't look like anything on him. Still she grabbed a blue t-shirt, and a blue sweater. She picked up a thick green cotton sweater with a tall collar and brown buttons. Soft, stylish. It would be getting cold soon...

She turned to her left and a voice made her jump.

"Hello, Granger." Draco peered out from behind a stack of dress shirts.

Hermione gasped, putting her hand to her chest. When her body adjusted to the shock, she let out a breath. "Merlin, Malfoy. You nearly gave me a heart attack." What on earth was he doing there?

His face pinched, making his grey eyes shimmer in the light overhead. "Why are you in a muggle men's clothing store? Buying something for Weaselbee?" He snatched the stack of shirts from Hermione's hands. If only he'd just go away...she had no good explanation for what she was doing.

_Oh, I'm just buying some new outfits for Lord Voldemort. Nothing creepy or out of the ordinary...yeah, that would go over well._

"Give them back," she demanded. Her patience wore thin. It started thin when it came to Draco Malfoy, even if he was Harry's Auror partner.

He casually flipped through the clothes. "Since when did the Ginger Wonder start liking green so much? It's more my color." Draco held a green button-up cotton shirt under his chin.

"What is your problem?" She snatched the clothes back. He laughed.

Draco put the back of his hand to his forehead in an overly dramatic gesture. "Hermione Granger, buying clothes for a man who's not her boyfriend. What has the world come to?" After all these years, that boy could still drive her crazy faster than anyone.

Maybe a half-truth would make him drop it, and she needed him to drop it. "It's for work."

He stole a silver scarf off a mannequin and wrapped it around his neck. "What the hell kind of work is that?" Draco raised an eyebrow, observing himself in the mirror. He pulled off the scarf and tossed it back on the mannequin.

Hermione sighed. "Malfoy, leave me alone."

"Whatever, Granger. Your secret is safe with me." He grabbed a skinny grey tie and slightly-wider back tie from the rack and held them up to his neck. With a smirk he asked, "What do you think? Grey or black?"

"Grey," she said, defeated. "What? Did you finally convince some poor girl to go out with you?"

He laughed and there was unusual warmth to it. "Not exactly. Working on it though."

That poor, poor girl.

That evening Hermione visited Azkaban Prison again, bringing along the clothes Voldemort had asked for.

She apparated inside the cell, her body and her wand protected from Riddle. Still nerves flooded her, as she had the bag of clothes tucked under her arm. She always left her meetings with the man unsettled, uneasy, like the world was on a slant.

Voldemort was so still, inhuman, as his gaze followed a small spider climbing across the stone. She cleared her throat, and he turned to her like a snake lifting its head from the coil.

"I brought your clothes," whispered Hermione. His white hands took the paper bag from her, almost skimming her pinky. Despite the fact he couldn't actually touch her because of her protective spell against him, her insides hopped.

He slid the clothes onto his cot, and began to thumb through the items. Hermione watched his small, calculated movements. Not one extra, not one unnecessary.

His voice was cool, like dew dripping down her skin. "Green. Excellent choice."

"So I get a story for this?" Wringing her hands and trying to steady her cracking breaths, she sat on the chair.

Voldemort examined the thick green sweater. "Oh, I think you've earned it." He grabbed the hem of a too-tight T-shirt and pulled it off slowly, exposing his back and the sinewy muscles that climbed him like vines. She bit down on her tongue. Hermione tried not to watch him as he turned around, his chest and abs remarkably cut, his hip bones sharp just above the waistband of his jeans. His body rippled as he pulled the sweater on. Voldemort smirked at Hermione. "Much better. Don't you think?"

Heat rose in her cheeks. If only there were a way to hide the flush, "Umm...yes."

"Anything in particular you'd like to know?" Voldemort sat down on his bed directly in front of Hermione, their toes nearly touching. She pulled back and stared down at her hands.

"Just tell me something that matters to you. Something important," said Hermione. He opened his mouth to speak, but the glint in his crimson eyes proved he would not take it seriously. She made her voice stern. "Not your definition of important. My definition of important."

He leaned in. "Do I know what that is?"

"Somehow, I think you do."

"As you wish, Miss Granger." He half-smiled and settled back on his hands. "I was raised in an orphanage as you know. Not a very nice one at that, cold and drafty, like this place. When you've been alone your whole life, the concept of parents isn't an easy one. You can't help but wonder why, why the two people in the world, who are supposed to be naturally inclined to want you, just don't. It's an interesting phenomenon how often children are abandoned by their parents. Love isn't as innate as people like you like to believe it to be...no, but selfishness is."

Hermione was in no mood for a 'love is stupid' lecture. Love had already kicked his ass. She had nothing to prove to him. Still, she couldn't help her self. "It's not about what's innate, what's easy, it's about what a person can choose to be."

He chuckled softly, and it turned her stomach. "Still a wishful thinker, after everything."

She leaned forward. A wave of courage, maybe a little resentment, rushed over her. "We beat you. I won and your mother didn't abandon you. She died."

"How do you know so much about me?"

"Dumbledore told Harry, Harry told me."

"Albus Dumbledore should have minded his own business." His words froze in the air and shattered on the stone floor. She tensed, flashing back to the fear, the loss, she'd felt during the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Don't talk about him. Tell your story or don't," she said calmly, but anger surged through her limbs. She wanted to slap him. Feel the sting against her hand, watch a red print blossom on his cheek.

"It wasn't until after I was at Hogwarts, and I became curious about my magical heritage, that I realized the truth about my father. That he was a muggle and when he found out that my mother—"

"Gave him a love potion and tricked him into marrying her," Hermione said smoothly.

Eerie, quiet stillness fell over the cell. "What did you say?" he hissed.

Hermione had said very much the wrong thing. "That's just what Harry, Dumbledore," she tried to explain, but it fell flat.

Hot contempt blazed in his eyes. Hermione fought the urge to pull out her wand. "That's not what happened. He left her because he found out she was a witch. Just because of that. He was weak, and so was she. So weak she gave me that fool's name."

He'd been wrong about his parents for all these years. How did you even tell someone that? "I'm not sure that's the whole story." Her voice was small, and made her feel stupid. She never felt stupid.

Voldemort bolted to his feet, teeth grinding. "What do you know about it, girl? What Harry Potter told you because that's what Albus Dumbledore told him? They do not know me. You do not know me."

He radiated anger so hot she worried it would burn her skin, but there was another emotion buried beneath the anger and she could see it because she'd seen it in herself. Sadness.

A pang of guilt struck Hermione. She hadn't said what she said because she thought he needed the truth. She'd said it to hurt him, and that was wrong. No matter what he'd done. "I'm sorry."

His heavy breathing stopped. His head tilted, observing like a hawk. "What?"

This she would say because it was the truth... "It's an apology. What happened with your parents was between them. It's none of my business, but at the end of the day, it's not really your business either. They made their choices; you made yours."

Voldemort shook his head and sat back down on the couch. What was that look on his face? Disbelief, maybe? "I thought you wanted an explanation of why I became what I became. To know it all started with them, a poor orphan boy, left to rot by his parents."

She sighed. "I wanted the truth, Tom. Not excuses. Not hiding behind other people so you don't have to take responsibility for what you've done. I never asked for that."

What else was there to say? To do? If he was just going to make excuses, make fun of her by saying what he thought she wanted to hear, then no; Hermione had better things to do. She dusted a piece of lint off her black pants, stood and turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" His voice was quiet.

She looked back at him, his elegant hands folded in his lap. "Home."

"Miss Granger," he asked, looking away. "What are your parents like?"

Don't answer him. Just leave. Leave while you have the chance.

"Good. Very good, as parents go." Hermione never could take her own advice.

His eyes seemed softer now, almost a rosy pink. "Where are they?"

"Gone. After Dumbledore died, around the time you took the Ministry, I hid them. I made them forget me." Hermione folded her arms across her chest. She should not have discussed this with him. What was it about this man that made her talk?

His shoulders perked up. "You removed their memory of you? At seventeen, you erased a lifetime of memories from your parents?"

She sighed, looking over his head. "And convinced them they wanted to move to Australia." It was a good idea; the only idea she'd had at the time. The question was, months later, why hadn't she been to get them? Restored their memory? She hadn't had time, she'd been busy settling in to her new job, her new life, she needed more...someday...there was always an excuse.

"Why?" he asked, sounding genuinely curious which just made her want to laugh and then maybe go home and cry.

Hermione swallowed. "So you couldn't find them and kill them."

Voldemort held her gaze, but his features were soft, thoughtful, as if maybe, all along, he'd never considered going after Hermione's parents. But there it was, in the quick raise of his hairless brow, he would have hurt them had he thought they'd know where Harry was. He stared down at his feet.

_I'm just reading too much into this._

Before she could disapparate, his voice filled the damp air with a rumbling like distant thunder. "I never wanted to be like him."

"Like your father?"

"Hermione." His heart skipped as Voldemort used her first name for the first time. "You should find them, your parents I mean. It's time, isn't it?" How did he know she hadn't already? Could he read her that well?

Hermione just nodded, heart playing a nervous melody against her breastbone.

Still Voldemort's voice was quiet, unobtrusive. "Bring me back a souvenir from Australia. I'll provide a proper story when you return."

She disapparated before that could get any weirder...if it were even possible, which it likely was not.

If Hermione waited too long, she probably come up with another excuse not to go to Australia. So the minute she got home, she started to pack. Harry was already asleep, at least his lights were off and his door was locked. And Ron had not come home yet.

She turned on the dim lamp in her room, pulled out her old beat-up leather duffle bag and began sorting through clothes for her trip. Behind her, the front door opened, then locked. Shoes beat on the tile, increasing in volume. The rhythm of Ron's walk was familiar enough she didn't need to turn around.

"Going somewhere?" asked Ron as he came into her bedroom and shut the door. He smelled like grass and sweat.

"Hey, Ron," she said, distracted.

He pulled a red bra out of her luggage. "Hermione, why are you packing a suitcase?" He sounded chipper as always, but she was busy sorting through jeans, and wasn't looking up at him.

"I'm going to Australia."

"To get your parents. I'm glad you finally listened to me. I'll pack too."

Oh no. "Ron..."

"Yeah?" He lay back on her bed, hiding behind her suitcase.

"I really think this is something I should do on my own."

His voice lowered a few octaves. "Um, okay. If you're sure. I just can't wait to meet them."

"You will. In time, I promise." Hermione finally looked up and over her suitcase. What on earth? "Why do you have a tiny golf club?"

He swung the small metal club in the air, the lime green handle nearly smacking him under the chin. "It's called Putt-putt...I went with my father today. The things those muggles come up with."

_Is Ron turning into his father? Wonderful._

"Why did you steal the club?"

He sat up, looking bemused. "I didn't steal it. They gave it to me."

"You're supposed to give it back."

He shrugged and stood up, walking behind Hermione. "Really? Oh, well. How long will you be gone?"

"Four days, maybe more, depending on how long it takes for me to find them."

"That's a long time to leave me all alone." His lips pressed against her neck, worked their way down her shoulder. She sighed.

He was so warm, like sliding into a hot bath. Ron spun her around and kissed her. Hard. Wet. Slowly, her hand went to the back of his head, and she shut her eyes. As Ron pushed her back onto the bed, crawled on top of her, kissing and running his uncontrolled hands over her body, fumbling with her clothes and his until they were naked, she kept seeing two red eyes pulsing, somewhere, in the back of her mind.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review. I'm going to be without a computer for awhile so I'm updating sooner before I lose my computer. If you're reading my other fics, I am working on all of them, including Personal Sin, but it will be longer now. Sorry about that. Thanks again. I can still see reviews and stuff on my phone I just can't post. Thanks again!**


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